Fiction: 1982 – A Christmas Ghost Story

Every Christmas I attempt writing fiction, and most specifically a short Christmas ghost story. I think my best so far is Ethel, which I wrote last year. This year I tried something slightly different -  and something I think very hard. I have attempted to write a realistic ghost story. That is, I have tried to tell the kind of story I often hear when interviewing people who claim to have experienced paranormal phenomena. Therefore I am afraid you will find little of the usual spine chilling stuff; no Victorian ladies spectres walk through walls, no headless corpses rise from unquiet graves to  seek ghastly vengeance on the living, and no strange curses are muttered on moonlit moors. Instead, my story is rather mundane, and rather modern. It could happen in any home. Your home even. Tonight.

I hope despite all this, a few of you enjoy it. It is not finished yet, if it ever will be, but perhaps I will continue tomorrow if the writing frenzy befalls me again. Oh and one last thing — it is fiction, and never happened: but the central phenomena are based loosely on a real case I once investigated, many, many years ago.

Now I’ll let the narrator take up the story.

OK, so it’s 1982. Thursday evening, the day before Christmas Eve, and I’m walking home in crisp white snow, humming “Hymn” by Ultravox. I stop to look at some mysterious footprints, surely those of a giant panther or wolf in the crisp frozen snow? and then turn away as  three older kids on BMX’s wobble unsteadily by. I want a BMX – but no way will I get one, not this Christmas. (Or the electronic Tron home arcade game I’d seen on TV). Nope, I’m due to get a “sensible bike”, but that will do me I guess. I was walking back from the Scout’s carol service, and no one had asked me to sing, but then at 12 your voice can go any time. Some of my mates, like Paul, well he already has a voice like Darth Vader. My voice, it’s more Minnie Mouse.

As I approach the house, the church bells loose off another thunderous peal, the bell ringers hurling defiance at the sodium orange tinted clouds overhead. Tea time, but seems to have been dark for hours, yet the open curtains of our little house – “our house in the middle of the street” – Madness are still in the Top Ten with that – anyway the windows cast bright squares of light on the thin crust of snow turned to ice.

Now the house is the hero of my story, so I’ll introduce it. Built a long time ago, it is exactly the same as all the other houses in the street. Like all of them it has been done up, and the little icy path to the loo at the bottom of the garden is redundant these days, replaced when I was little more than a toddler by the new brick built extension where the old kitchen was, with a modern bathroom and indoor loo. About 74, maybe 75? I have dim memories of sprinting freezing cold past the rhododendron bush and over the mossy path slick with slug trails to the icy confines of the loo up there, and the crisp feel of medicated toilet paper, horrid stuff but did not get damp no matter how bad the roof leaked. The privy in the garden, well it’s a tool shed these days – dad keeps his junk in there, when mum forces it out of the ‘dining room.’ Not often in winter; but right now the bits of radio, lawnmower, model aeroplanes and of course his illicit CB radios. Many a night he is in there, working on some US kit, sawing down aerials or doing whatever he does, if not busy talking in numbers to bored farm hands and passing lorry drivers. He tried ham radio, but the illegality of CB remains the thrill for a bored rebel like my dad.

Oh yeah the house. Well like many other houses – kitchen filled to the bursting with Christmas food we were forbidden to touch as the great day was not yet upon us, a tiny parlour with a turkey to big for the fridge sitting in a bowl of icy water, over which mum cooed and ah’d like it was a newborn, the front room where I tried to watch Top of the Pops if mum went to bingo that night, and enjoyed Terry & June if she didn’t, and the dining room which was really dad’s lair filled with his gadgets, machinery and rubbish. Upstairs three bedrooms, one quite bare and empty – I used to hurry past the open door at night, and slam it shut without looking in to the darkness. Mum said she heard someone died in there, a former tenant, but now it holds are racks and racks of old shirts, pullovers and spare bedlinen. Still gives me the creeps. My room and my parents: and the ‘new’ bathroom, all olive green fittings and deep blue walls slick with the steam of the piping hot bath water (if someone had remembered to turn the immersion heater an hour before at least).

There remains just one more thing- the loo. Olive green to match the bath – but who wants to hear about our toilet? Yet I’m afraid it is the toilet, this modern comfortable convenience, that is the heart of my story. Not the grim cold little privy long disused at the bottom of the garden, but this most convenient of all, well, modern conveniences. It was upon this very throne that five years ago on Christmas night Uncle Roger had passed in to eternity, just four months after Elvis met a similarly tragic fate.

Now I can’t recall much of that night, apart from the cheery ambulancemen wishing us all “a very Merry Christmas” as they wheeled out Uncle Roger’s corpse. What a way to go! Roger was my mothers brother, a kind jovial plump chap, who we all liked. We are far less keen on his wife, the rather glamorous Aunt Gladys. She hailed from somewhere in Surrey, and from a ‘good family’ I’m told, and they never really forgave her for marrying Roger; a provincial librarian was not what they had planned for a woman who was I am told in her day a prominent society type. I know Gladys as a women of decidedly uncertain complexion and very forthright views, who makes disapproval an art form. The thing she most disapproves of most in the world is my mother; dad however comes a close second, with the dog and I vying for third. Her (extremely infrequent) visits are ordeals, inspections, perhaps even inquisitions? She seems to take delight in being disappointed, and I had never known her to spend a single night under our roof. When Gladys and Roger came, it meant picking them up from the hotel, and not even a small sherry for dad till they were safely back in the Station Arms, where Gladys had made herself the least popular guest in that worthy establishments history. She likes like to criticize, does Gladys, and the staff take umbrage at her extremely honest (and lengthy) descriptions of her failings.

Enough! I must speed up this story, or I will be here all night. On getting in and tramping slush and ice over the carpet of the hall, I saw Dad in a state of wild agitation. He was carrying a milk crate stuffed with motor parts, bookies forms, long dead chequebooks and jam jars full of valves, defunct batteries and odd bits of wiring. No word was necessary; he as off to the outside privy, to put away as much as he could, and tomorrow he would drive to the skip to abandon three years cherished treasures. He was clearing the dining room; for the first time in 36 months, and only the second since we lost Uncle Roger, Gladys must be coming to visit, and last time had been a fleeting and unwelcome visit on legal matters. Gladys, or Mrs Broome-Verall, as I must not desperately attempt to remember to call her. The hour was at end, and the innocence of youth was gone, Christmas was no longer a time of cheer and goodwill, but a time of sterile manners and terrified politeness, amidst the hostile stilted chatter of my elders, and the long silences. Silence, because Mrs Broome-Verall as Gladys shall be henceforth, well she does not like the TV on. Television is a vulgar medium, as she is fond of saying.

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OK, OK. This is supposed to be a ghost story, and I can tell by the look on your face you are bored with it already. Let’s cut to the chase…

It’s midnight now, Christmas Eve creeping in as the clock ticks on closer to Gladys and a Christmas ruined. Dad is furiously scrubbing something, mum shouting at the dog as she re-hoovers the front room for the fifth time– lucky old Mrs Siddons next door is deaf as a post, and I can faintly smell emulsion as dad has tried to make the dining room look respectable, OK, less shabby. I’m reading my mothers copy of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, which adults have raved about for weeks and I just can’t see the humour in. Then it happens: a sharp, persistent rapping, loud enough to reverberate throughout the house.

The hoover instantly cuts out, and Dad lets slip a word I’ve never heard him use before, even after a dozen pints at one of his roisterous CB eyeballs at The Thorn. Debbie the Dog lets loose the most ghastly, unearthly howling. It’s like a game of freeze tag. We all stop, frozen by a dreadful realization – Gladys has come early. Even know she is standing outside, her prim pointy little nose doubtless growing icicles as her mood becomes more icy than the weather. For a moment the whole house seems to crouch in terror, the painful expectancy building. And then a sudden flurry of agitated violent raps breaks the calm, and I hear dad steeling himself for the horror to come stride manfully over and throw open the door. The whole world waits juddering in pace for a second; then anticlimax. No Gladys, no polite but frigid hugs, no sound of machine gun tutting as she enters. Just mum and dad laughing, and the sound of dad bouncing up the stairs, shouting down “well we know she is not here till three tomorrow” with a kind of wild joy. He does not bother to knock, but hurls open my door, and shouts at me “what’s with all the banging? You’ll wake the neighbours.”

And then it happened again. A short staccato burst of machine gun raps, sparking off Debbie’s howling again, and echoing clearly from along the passage. Dad actually jumped, as did I, so unexpected was it. In his jubilation at discovering Gladys was not already at the door, he had forgotten the violent knocking he had taken as an omen of this doom. Now he decided it was an omen of failing plumbing, and rejuvenated by the prospect of dismantling the hot water system shot off downstairs to find a spanner.

I wasn’t so sure, but the hour was late, and I needed the loo. I walked along the passage, and saw the basted door to the “haunted” room had swung open again, so averted my eyes and tugged it shut as I made the leap for safety in to the bathroom. Well nearly, even as I was barging in, a sudden flurry of deafening raps send me skidding backwards, the light snapping off in my hand as I fell on to the lino, and nearly wetting myself in terror, crawled back towards the sanctuary of my bedroom. That was how dad found me, clad only in Y fronts, crawling like a thing possessed away from the bathroom, waving the light cord like a trophy. I don’t think he knew whether to howl with rage, tears or laughter, but he chose the latter.

A while passed, the banging now seemingly over. Dad fixed the light cord with a quick knot, and set about dismantling the immersion, muttering about air blocks and lime scale build up but happy to have an excuse to take apart the whole system, however unnecessarily. In the meantime I discard Adrian and quickly dressed, as I hear mum calling with a certain urgency. Turns out all she wants is for me to pop next door and check old Mrs Siddons is alright. “After all dear, it would be awful if she had had a fall, and is lying there banging on the walls trying to get us to hear, and we did nothing – it being Christmas and all.” Biting back the urge to ask if it would be better if we left her to die slowly at Whitsun or Easter, I pulled on my old parka that no longer fits properly, and scrambled off on my errand of mercy.

On arriving at Mrs Siddon’s front door however I was rather lost. All the lights were off, and I could hardly knock till she awakened if she was safely asleep. Even if she did not mind me woken after midnight, and she is always up at 5am sharp to go get her morning paper, even if I she doesn’t mind, the noise it would take such a deaf old woman to come down would wake the rest of the street. And if she had fallen, and was lying somewhere in the darkness upstairs rapping on the wall for help, how was she meant to answer the door even if she heard me? I decided I’d best see if the back offered any more possibilities. I slipped back through our house, and heard mum saying in a hollow tone “and the stupid bitch still believes I poisoned him. I should have done to put him out of his misery with her, would have been be a mercy I tell you”. Even now Gladys arrival overshadowed everything it seems.

I tried to call the dog to follow me to the back garden, but Debbie was clearly upset. She had retreated in to the parlour, squeezing herself behind the beer crates and boxes of never used silver wedding gifts. Always does that if there is a row in the house, and spends most of her time there when Gladys is in the house,but just as well as Gladys can’t abide dogs. I nose out in to the garden, the sky still the colour of a muted electric fire from the myriads of street lamps. Then I recall mum’s dream.

It was just a few weeks after Uncle Roger had passed from us; mum had woken suddenly, having trouble sleeping. The funeral had not been a success, and the missing will and almost open hostility of Gladys to us all had really upset mum. I wasn’t meant to know about the dream, but I have heard her tell other story when she thinks I’m not listening. Maybe a dozen or more times now, and always in those hushed tones she adopts when talking of sad or strange things. On the night in question she had awakened, and heard a voice calling her name. She did not wake my father, but went to her bedroom window, and looked out, and there was real as life was Uncle Roger, deathly pale and clearly a corpse, staring up at her from by the rhododendron bush. She had really liked, indeed loved her brother, but in that instant she said she felt a chill of utter pure evil, and she threw herself backwards on to the bed, awakening herself and my father instantly. (I can still recall the muffled screams from them both – I just wondered what the hell they were up to, and deciding better not to ask, went back to bed. There are some things we are not meant to know, at least when it comes to your parents bedroom pursuits.)

My mother was not right for a few days after that, and she kept shaking. Dad told her Roger was probably still alive, having faked his own death and was doubtless hiding out from Aunt Gladys in the potting shed, but no, for once she failed to see the funny side. The “ghost” had really really upset her. However I could tell dad was worried, and a few days later he took mum off to see the doctor, who I think gave her “something for her nerves”. After that, normality slowly returned.

Anyhows as I walked through the frozen night garden, past that rhododendron bush, I shivered and I’m not sure it was entirely the cold. Then my blood ran – well not exactly cold, as it was freezing in my veins from being out there in the night, but the thumping in my ears told me it was doing something. From the privy I heard the phantom rattling of chains! After a second or two I realised, it was just the chain on the cistern blowing in the wind. Spooks! What rot! I steeled my nerves again, and climbed over the fence in to the inky blackness of Mrs Siddon’s yard.

Suffice to say this proved no more useful than the front; and actually I did not try very hard to find her, for there propped against the wall I discovered a shiny new bike, a 5 green gear racer, still firmly wrapped in Halford’s plastic. So this was where my Christmas present was concealed! When I finally got back in, there had been no more knocking, and mum and dad were demolishing the Christmas port and lemon. Given we had no central heating, not even storage heaters, I left them to their drinks and scurried off to my welcome bed, head racing with thoughts of what five gears could achieve on a downhill run.

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Christmas Eve dawned with the frost staining my window in a fantastical pattern of faerie ferns. I jumped down the stairs, hoping my parents inevitable hangover from last night had not precluded them getting up and putting the electric fire on, to be greeted by the reassuring smell of toast and frying bacon. And I’m afraid nothing of interest happened for hours, not till maybe eleven, by which time the house was once again a whirling kaleidoscope of frenzied tidying, panicked squealing and near hysteric dusting. Only a few hours till the doom that is Gladys needs picking up from the station, and the lucky old hotel staff stand inspection for the first of her tirade of complaints. Soon after that, our turn! What that, isn’t this a ghost story? OK OK, I’ll move on…

It was just before noon it started up again. Mum and dad were arguing downstairs, in fact shouting quite loudly. I did not need to ask what about. I was upstairs, arranging the linen in airing cupboard. It was the banging again, clear, sharp, raps, and close by. In fact this time they seemed to be getting faster, indeed building in speed and momentum, until finally there was a tremendous rapidfire volley of sharp short cracks. And then I realised it was coming from the bathroom.

OK, it took a moment for that to sink in, and in that moment my parents stopped shouting, and the banging ended. I wandered in to the bathroom, and looked suspiciously at the taps, and dad started to come up stairs to see what was going on. Mum wasn’t having that – she had to get the last word in, and so she did, and as they started shouting again, I began to carefully inspect the plughole. Snap! Snap! Right behind me, causing me to yelp in sheer shock, the air knocked out of my lungs by the unexpected rapping. And then I saw the ghost.

You look relieved that I have finally got to the ghost, but I suspect you won’t be. What I saw was no misty apparition, not even a figure like mum’s dream of Uncle Roger: nope what I saw was the plastic toilet seat on our loo banging up and down, up and down, seemingly as if slammed with real venom, hatred even, by an invisible hand. I’m not a brave person – not even a strong willed one; but the effect was both so odd and so ridiculous I could do nothing but stand and stare, and then giggle, and finally laugh. The more I laughed, the harder it slammed, as if my jollity in the face of this unnatural phenomena, this sanitary convenience from the other side, was somehow annoying it. I must have laughed a good thirty seconds, and all the time the lid slammed with greater speed, until I heard both my parents running up the stairs. I cared not: I wanted them to see this. And then suddenly, a tremendous gurgling built up, and a strange watery voice issued forth from the cistern, crying “GET OUT!!!” I fled for my life down the passage, knocking my mother flying, and causing dad to pirouette in to the wall and fall clutching a long string of shiny tacky tinsel.

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OK, time to leave this for tonight. I’ll finish the story later if anyone cares.

cj x

Fiction: Ethel — A Christmas Ghost Story

I wrote a little Christmas ghost story, which may amuse some of my friends. It’s a story I have been trying to write on and off since the Most Haunted days, when it came to me one Christmas Eve in a dream. It’s a little unfair, because to really understand it relies on you getting the joke, and spotting the references — which I suspect very few of you are likely to know. Still if you do it may amuse, and even if not I hope it is mildly spooky. This is in lieu of a Christmas card or Christmas message, and yes I know it’s not very good, but some stories just demand to be written…

Ethel – A Christmas Ghost Story

There has been much speculation in the press over the disappearance of my dear friend, while in the act of “ghost hunting”.

While sceptics groups have taken the tragedy as a warning to the curious of the hazards of engaging in the infantile pursuit of the impossible, and believers have made many strange and curious speculations about spontaneous combustion, the police have taken the line that he left, perhaps deranged by his recent illness, of his own accord, and will turn up somewhere.

It seems quite probable he did meet a young woman holidaymaker, and has set off to make a new life for himself. Those of us who knew him knew he was at the time of his disappearance both financially burdened and saddened by the end of his media career, but do find it out of character he has not been in touch with anyone.

Temporary amnesia, a romance, or perhaps sadly severe illness seem more likely explanations than the foul play suggested by sceptics or the paranormal end suggested by the woo crowd.

Whatever the truth, his possessions were found by myself when I arrived, two days after his last email and concerned by the rambling bizarre nature of his last message to me.

All of his possessions barring his wallet, clothing he was wearing, laptop satchel and mobile phone were found, as his email suggests, neatly placed in the pantry.

Enough time has now passed for me to share with the interested public his last emails, in the hope they may shed light upon the curious case,and help bring him back to his friends and family. Do contact me or the police if you have any idea of his current whereabouts – young and romantic, he showed great promise in the field of psychical research, and was a good friend to me for many years.

Here are his emails, in order.

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Dear CJ.

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. I stepped off the train in to a scene from a Christmas card; snow had fallen, snow on snow, and while miraculously it was exactly the right kind of snow, everyone had made tracks for home. I walked down a few steps to view the tawdry holiday lights of Marley High Street. An American might have been taken by the quaint charm, but I just felt light headed – my recent flu has not quite left, and the wooziness flushed from my floaty brow to my tingling toes. I felt like I was walking in the Christmas of my childhood, in a magical world, where the ghosts of Christmas Past were near.

A few folk wrapped staggered by, hard wrapped against the winter cold; even The White Horse pub appeared to be a derelict floating on a sea of ice, despite the chalkboard promise of big prizes for the pub quiz tonight. Yes, Marley really was dead tonight.

Still, I’m not here for the holiday spirit; I’m here to work, and the very fact that the place seems to be little more than a dormitory town with all the charm of off-season Great Yarmouth makes it all the more appealing. The icy wind actually seemed to clear my head, and the walk through the centre (a rather wonderful art deco cinema – you really should check it out!) and then out along Compton Lane to the house did much to improve my spirits.

It’s about three miles from Marley town centre to the house. Seems that until the ribbon development of the thirties led to houses growing out along the roads, it was a separate village, and the district still holds its old name of Compton. Not a taxi to be had in this Christmas Card scene, so I trudged the whole way, rucksack on my back passed shiny new build estates filled with delightful children and advert-ready families. Or so I imagine: I did not stop to peek through whatever-has-replaced Laura Ashley curtains.

By the edges of Compton I was dizzy and tired, and despite the cold had broken a most unseasonal sweat. I think I told you in my last email; the Letting Agent had three tenants leave, citing “ghosts”, and the landlord who lives abroad finally agreed to my visit, on the understanding there is no publicity. I expect damp or noisy neighbours are the real issue, but a week over Christmas to get over the flu and think about where my career would take me next. Downhill fast probably, without brakes – is that not the definition of “career”? Still my reputation as a “ghost expert” has finally got me something worthwhile, a little holiday not far from town.

When I saw the house I was a little taken a back – on the train my feverish fantasies had been of a little thatched cottage, roof pristine with glistening snow awaiting only the soft thud of Santa’s sleigh, or a crumbling gothic manor set back from the road. In fact there is such a place – Bott Hall, once the home to a man who made his fortune manufacturing some condiment considered quite delicious in the inter-war period – big enough to get a mention in the guidebook, devoid of any charm, it now serves as a conference centre or some such.

Anyway the house I had come to evict the spooks from is quite ordinary; Edwardian middle class home, according to my notes once home to a successful stockbroker, since the early seventies owned by the current landlord (who now lives in France), and let to a succession of tenants, none of whom complained until he had some much needed renovations done a couple of years back. Since that time no one had stayed long, and some had fled well within the six months they were required to pay for. The stories seemed hazy, contradictory – voices, the roar of a motorbike when none could be seen, a black almost shapeless “thing” that scurried around the kitchen, and much more besides.

I passed the village school, now yuppie apartments, the Norman Church and the bookies – which still preserved the antique sign in glistening gold paint of a former occupier, “Theobald the Barbers.” Nothing about the tiny suburb of Marley suggested spooks, and as I walked up the path I was ready to put on a lemsip and settle down for an uneventful week of reading – I brought the book you bought me on Roman religion along, and Simpson & Westwood too.

Suddenly my attention was drawn to something quite ordinary, yet strangely unsettling. I can’t put my finger on why I found it worthy of attention at all, but across the snowy fields I saw an old wooden barn, broken down, indeed barely standing. Something about the silhouette of the ancient structure seemed malignant, like a hunched beast waiting to creep, as son as the curtains were shut, close to the house, and reach out for…

The milk bottles on the doorstep broke my reverie – empty of course, but as I slid on the icy step I kicked them, and cursing struggled to find the right key. And then I noticed something odd – one was not empty, but contained a murky grey liquid, not frozen despite the temperature. I fumbled with mittens, and picked it up, and the secret was revealed – someone had dropped a stick of licorice in it, and seemingly shaken it. Odd, but hardly eerie, so I left it there and went in.

OK, the layout is prosaic enough – a sitting room, dining room, what used to be called a “morning room” and a bookshelf lined study on the ground floor, the kitchen and pantry and a couple of small rooms, perhaps once servants quarter in the basement, with a coal hole and a kitchen door opening on to steps. There are four bedrooms – one was clearly the master bedroom, one had a vaguely feminine air, and their was a smaller room, probably a child’s, overlooking an ancient tree. Cosy enough, I turned on the electric, fired up the boiler – pilot lit first time, and placing a Carbon Monoxide meter in position (could the answer to the ghosts be that simple?) I set out looking for the best place to sleep. Given the fact it’s let unfurnished, I chose to place my sleeping bag in the kitchen, and thanked the landlords foresight in installing gas central heating, even if it had stirred up the ghosts. Anyway I have managed to get a wifi connection, and have fixed some food – there is both a kettle and microwave down here, together with a lot of other stuff seemingly half packed. I’m thanking the ghosts for scaring the last tenants away so well they could not be bothered to collect their possessions!

Have a good night, and if I don’t have time to write or get eaten by the beasties a great Xmas! Will email tomorrow if the Horrors have not got me…

x

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Hullo CJ!

I sent my last about twenty minutes ago, but something quite extraordinary happened. I ate a bit – helps with the fever, and then I thought I heard the sound of a motorbike pass by. I’m not sure what it is – probably just the central heating warming up – but it sounded for all the world like a really badly tuned bike driving in, coasting on the gravel, and being lent against the wall with a clank. I was looking at the boiler when I heard what sounded like the back door opening, and someone creeping in, wearing socks and trying to be stealthy.

I have been set up on ghost hunts before, so I slipped my shoes off, and quietly keeping to the sides crept upstairs. Nothing: except an old fashioned tennis racket leaning against a wall, just inside the back door. I never saw it on my first tour, but I neglected to take photos then. Yeah, I know, some “ghost expert” I am. Obviously it was there before and I overlooked it, but it was still a bit odd. I would have paid more attention, but I got a whiff of cologne, and convinced someone was in the house hiding from me I dashed up the stairs, only to freeze in terror.

In the door of the child’s room I thought I saw the thing – perhaps a giant rat, a beady eyed thing. On reflection it perhaps looked more like a dog than a rat, but the scruffiest most outrageous jumble of breeds you can imagine, a disreputable animal. I was standing there looking at it, and it was looking at me – but neither of us moved. Then suddenly it was gone, and I advanced in to the room cautiously, still clutching that absurd old tennis bat.

Nothing – bare boards, moonlight, and the swaying of the apple tree branches, heavy laden with snow. Suddenly I realized – it was just a shadow, and the glistening reflection of ice. How stupid I am! I went round the whole house just to be certain, and apart from a faint whiff of pipe tobacco in the study, which may well have just been my imagination, nothing. In the morning I’ll make sense of this place, and lay the ghosts for good.

X

Hi CJ,

I hope you are having a wonderful Christmas Day. I have had a fairly dull time, but that is how I like it. The fever has now nearly gone, though I think last night played a strain on my nerves, and I’m still a little shaky. I’m annoyed I shall miss Dr Who, but I’ll catch it later on I-Player. I hope you enjoyed The Ladykillers, and dinner was good and DC wicked, or vice-versa.

Not much of interest occurred in the morning – I woke after a strange dream, in which a woman’s voice called repeatedly to someone called Ellen to “get the pudding on to steam”. I did not open my eyes, but lay in a reverie in which I imagined a kitchen bustling with the clank of pots and festive preparation of a century ago. I wonder if they used Bott’s sauce? I seem to recall somewhere that if you consumed too much it was so rich it made you vomit!

The floorboards settled overhead, and I imagined a family sitting for lunch – a stern father, his head in The Times, a tired looking mother dealing with a tousled haired lad, forcing him to go wash his horribly stained hands, and an older boy and his sister filled with excitement about their holiday plans. After an hour or more of vivid dreams and fitful sleep, I forced myself up, had a quick wash, and emerged blinking in to the brilliant sunshine reflecting off the snowy garden.

I had intended to explore the village, but instead I slipped through a gap in the fence, and went off to have a look a look at that run down old barn, determined to exorcise the vague unease it had conjured up in me last night. As I approached I saw that the door had long since fallen, but someone had tacked a notice to the framework: I expected a notice advising demolition and an application for planning permission – it’s right on the edge of town, in unspoilt countryside, you know what barn conversions go for!

Instead I found the most remarkable document, a ink stained piece of paper apparently torn from an exercise book, and scrawled in the most awful hand. It read

Chrismuss Paygent here today 10am.

Admisshun tuppence.

No Hubert Lainites.

By kind permisshun The Outlaws.

Orl Welcum.”

Stopping only to think what text talk and the X box have done to the new generation, I slipped in. Whatever had occurred, I had missed it – I realized it was nearly noon anyway. A smoky fire of wet twigs still burned, and a semi circle of ancient packing crates showed where the “audience” had sat, but of them and the performers there was no trace. Just a single discarded bottle, with a trace of grey disgusting water and a tiny piece of partially dissolved licorice. Something about the scene seemed wrong – I can’t put my finger on it – but for some reason I turned and hurried away, towards the village. I had the strongest impression I was being watched, and jeered at, by some local kids. For a moment I thought I saw them, four tousle haired youths crouched in a ditch across on the field boundary, with a small yapping dog, but when I looked again they were not there. Bloody fever.

I spent the whole afternoon in the house, and nothing untoward happened. I’m heading down the pub now – will email tomorrow.

X

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I thought I saw those bloody kids again. They were following me, but all dressed up in suits, scrubbed pink and shiny, in best shoes. Was down by the church. The dog was skulking nearby, and it looked like the shadow I saw last night. If they are hoaxing me I’ll tell their parents. Getting to me, and my head is swimming. Pub lunch here. Merry Christmas.

Sent by Android

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Hey CJ,

Of all the things I thought of when I cam here I never expected this. I have met a girl, and she is adorable. Not in the pub, as you might expect – as I was walking home. She is slender, adorable, has red hair, in a very stylish bob, and was dressed in old fashioned clothes. When I commented on her 1920′s outfit and how well she pulled it off she laughed and asked if I had been at the Christmas Pageant too, and then I understood! Fancy dress!

We met just outside the pub in the street, and she joked when I made a passing comment about how good she looked and she said I looked quite remarkable as well. She really is very attractive, and Ethel – that’s her name, rather sweet hey – Ethel Brown, well we stood and talked for ages, and eventually wandered down to the Churchyard, and sat and talked in the church porch. I mentioned what I had seen at the barn, and she said it was just a copy of the adult pageant put on by her dreadful little brother William and his awful friends. Apparently he is quite the little savage, and eleven years old. I thought by eleven nowadays kids were all about playing Skyrim, GTA or whatever else is fashionable on the consoles. I swiftly changed the subject, that boy gives me the creeps.

And then another mystery was solved – we heard the roar of a motorbike, and Ethel said it must be her brother Robert, on his way home, and she must go. We have agreed to meet again tomorrow, at sunset, in the churchyard. I hope to be invited to dinner by Mr and Mrs Brown, they obviously live nearby. I walked home light headed, and I’m not convinced it was the fever. Did I mention Ethel is adorable? I should have told her where I was staying…

x

*********************************************

CJ

Dreadful night. Voices kept whispering, and people creeping about. Ellen the maid nearly fell over me with a plate of pies, and leftover cabbage smells vile, I have moved in to the pantry so as not to get in the way. But Ethel is here, I heard her at breakfast above, talking to her parents and Robert. Oh and William, her little brother, and his gang. I was nice to him, gave him a fiver, but he just said it was funny “furrin” money. They took me to the barn, and I had to drink some of that licorice water and pretend it was the best thing ever. I keep promising William stuff, and I heard him tell Ginger, Henry and Douglas I’m “soft” on his sister. Jumble tore my trousers while trying to worry my sneakers laces. Awful mutt!

Still soon will be sunset, and I am meeting Ethel at the churchyard, and plan to be introduced to the family. I went in to Theobalds and got my hair cut, and boy I look like a freak, but judging by Robert and his mate Hector the ridiculous hairstyle is fashionable round here.

The sun is setting, and I’m sitting shivering, teeth chattering, whether with cold or fever I know not. Laptop is working again, was unable to get a signal most of the day. I’m sitting on the garden wall now and hope this gets through. Oh, one thing. As the sun sets, the chinks in the old burn make it glow red, as it slips below the horizon behind it. Did you not once tell me that the Red Barn at Polstead got it’s name that way, and in Suffolk such places are associated with the supernatural?

Anyway must go, signal getting intermittent, and soon will be with Ethel. She really is adorable you know…

x

CJ’s Strange Games: Cthulhu Live 2000, “To Play The King”

This Sunday I will be playing in a freeform Live Action Roleplaying Game set in the thirteenth century. Given how geeky I am, and how much I love roleplaying games a lot of readers of my blog may be surprised to  discover I have ever only played in two or three LARPs, though  I have written and run as referee more than  a dozen now. However, given my interest in the paranormal, and the writings of HP Lovecraft, it will surprise few of you to find that I have written quite a few games with those themes central to them, and one that holds a special place in my heart took place over seven weekends in 2000, culminating in January 2001.

When I moved from Suffolk to Gloucestershire a lot of my friends moved down with me – 16 people I knew in Suffolk have ended up living here over the years. Back in 2000 it was slightly less, and this game series was born when I wondered what would happen if the people I knew in Suffolk came and played a game here in unfamiliar territory, with the town serving as a backdrop for an X-Files influenced espionage thriller game set in the world of Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos.

I had up to 24 willing assistants from the Student Parapsychology Society, who played bit parts, major non-player roles and in fact almost everyone the players interacted with through the game. The players were supposed to be members of the British X Files team, unfortunates who had experienced something supernatural in their lives and had been recruited in to a mysterious agency called Cassandra 23, devoted to protecting the Nation from occult hazards. The field agents team were they guys from Bury who drove down having designed characters using the “Cthulhu Live” roleplaying game rules, and remained in character for the whole game, investigating “crime scenes”, breaking in to houses and reading prop books etc we had made specially for the game.

What followed was fun, and deeply atmospheric, indeed at times almost genuinely frightening! The two teams, the players and the actors and games staff, bit had a fantastic time. The “script” was a branching scenario, and there was no right or wrong way to solve it, and as in reality certain events happened at certain times, and indeed player characters could be killed or driven mad and forced to sit out of the rest of the game if they messed up badly.  It was “murder mystery” gone mad – instead of occurring at a single dinner party, it took place over a whole town, and  a whole weekend ( or in the case of the first two games one day and night)  and the players had to piece together clues, shadow villains, do computer research, read old books and work out what was really happening in the game, and come up with a plan to solve it.

Armed with a thirty page script and pages of notes on their characters the actors had to act out their roles, and work out how to foil the players. The players had to solve the mystery.  They had a few resources to call on, and each players character had unique skills like lock picking, forensics or occultism they could bring to bear on the mystery. But they did not know which skills they would need when they designed their character, and the whole game was played in real time, so they had to improvise when they lacked a vital skill.

It’s all a game, and nothing more, needless to say. But it was huge fun, and while in today’s more paranoid world we might not be able to do it, as even blatantly fake guns and people dressed as monsters may upset the public, back then the police just laughed out loud and were happy we warned them where and when it would all occur. They were fantastic, and we went to huge lengths to ensure the public were not disturbed: something many larp groups have failed badly, indeed potentially tragically at.  I won’t name the players, as many of them are now “respectable”: I doubt anyone can recognize them from these pictures, but if you want to be removed just let me know. What follows is a piece written by one of the players after the first game, in character — it should give you a very real idea of how it all worked out! Although it looks terribly amateurish it’s actually a lot more intense than it sounds.

Cassandra 23: To Play The King

January 21^st, 2000 – South West England

To: section 9, records

Subject: Transcript of audio recording made by subject Savage, 23-01-2000

Note: certain references made while subject was in rem sleep may impair efficiency as field operative. As per regulation 13/a/lambda surveillance operatives deleted portions of recording before returning to subject. Low probability of tampering being detected.

Excised portions have been presented in different font for emphasis.

It was a typical January morning, cold and grey. As arranged I’d met up with the other Cassandra 23 agents in a small Suffolk town and then the four of us, using a pool car provided by the agency, began heading west as instructed. We knew that we would meet up with a fifth member of our cell on arrival at our destination.

Previously I’d only done some unclassified research work for Cassandra and I was surprised to be selected for a field operation – my surprise only grew when I discovered that my new colleagues professed to have no field experience either. At the time I suspected that Cassandra 23 preferred to use operatives who had no connection with the fields of security and intelligence but events were to prove that supposition untrue. Although we were all somewhat tight – lipped about ourselves it was clear that we were an eclectic bunch. The driver, Jones, was apparently a “Rock Ape”; I took this to refer to the RAF regiment as he bore only a passing resemblance to a simian. The other two agents seemed to come as a matched pair, one, Patrick Harper, was a historian from Northern Ireland and his fellow Irishman, Billy claimed to be a psychic. I would like to say that an immediate rapport developed amongst the Cell but the truth was that the two Irishmen took it upon themselves to bate Jones, who replied to their good-natured taunts with equally good-natured threats of death or serious disfigurement. I was silent, unsure what to make of my new companions.

During the journey we played a briefing tape which Jones had been provided with – it was as useful as any other piece of government information I’ve come across.

We arrived at our destination just before three that afternoon. Outside the climate had improved, the oppressive clouds had been left behind and the weather was now clearer but still January cold. The others had some knowledge of Cheltenham, our destination, and navigated us through the outskirts with unerring skill. The city was bigger than I expected and had an air of slightly faded grandeur, an impression reinforced by the imposing nature of our ultimate destination, the Queens Hotel – a proud apparition in white.

The Cell had been told that we would meet up with our briefing officer inside the Hotel so, leaving the car in a safe locale, we made our way there. Awaiting our arrival outside the Queens was the final member of our select group. The man, whom we later knew as Agent Fox, stood out, dressed smartly in a dinner jacket and tie more suited to the gaming tables of Monte Carlo than the wind–blown streets of Cheltenham. It later transpired that he had indeed been called away from the Riviera to join the investigation.

It wasn’t Fox who felt out of place when we entered but the rest of us, who were wearing gear designed to protect us from the cutting wind and, consequently were under-dressed for our surrounding.

 Mr Johnson

Our briefing officer awaited us in the bar, where drinks were purchased by those with a mood to partake. Mr Johnson (or Mr J as he would otherwise be known) cut an imposing figure, tall and lean with a neatly trimmed beard and metal–rimmed glasses. He awaited our arrival at a small corner table and sat with his back to the wall, a habit gained from years in the field I have no doubt. As we sat down and arranged ourselves he introduced himself as Mr Johnson (or Mr. J) and handed out our identity cards. After a brief exchange of pleasantries he then provided us with a brief summary of the mission.

We had been summoned to Cheltenham to clear up discrepancies which had arisen in the routine security vetting of one Alec West, a high-ranking scientist at the Gilman Foundation, a local research institute which did a good deal of classified research. In the course of the vetting a possible link was established between West and the mysterious leader of a local religious cult, the Church of the Amber Light, one Sebastian Lux. Two operatives from another agency, Agents Scott and Baines, were assigned to carry out a routine surveillance on Lux. This routine operation became anything but when Baines died in unusual circumstances while following the cult head. Our task was to discover what happened to Baines, what the link between West and Lux was and if Lux had compromised the security of the Gilman Foundation. Mr J warned us that the work carried out at the Foundation was of a highly sensitive nature, so sensitive that we were to make no inquiries about it and were to report anything we learnt to him immediately. The rest of the briefing would have to wait until we reached a more secure location.

Led by the efficient Mr J. we departed the Queens. Our first stop was the safe house on [DELETED FOR SECURITY REASONS] Road, which would act as our ‘home base’ for the rest of the mission. On the way I quizzed Fox on his role and was somewhat gratified to learn that he at least was a professional, who normally worked for one of the nation’s more regular intelligence organisations. I gathered that he was a little ‘miffed’ at having been dragged away from sunny climes of the south of France for the bracing winter air of Cheltenham.

Mr J & the players!

When we arrived at our destination we found that it boasted all the facilities necessary for the task, namely a sizable library and a powerful mainframe computer with immediate access to the World Wide Web. The Cell was introduced to Agent Scott, Baines’ partner who was to assist us during the operation. She seemed capable but a little distracted – I took this to be grief at the death of Baines. Mr J. then issued firearms to the team, explaining that, as this was primarily a surveillance operation, they were not to be used except in the most exceptional situations. Furthermore, to avoid entanglements with the local authorities the standard codeword TOYS should be used when referring to them. Henceforth, when confronted with moments of physical danger it became common practice to send for the TOYmen (Jones and Fox). The basic operational rules having been outlined Mr Johnson took us to one of Cheltenham’s prestigious higher education facilities, apparently the security services made use of it as an inconspicuous base on rare occasions. Tight security was in force on the site and we had to pass through a number of security checks, including an encounter with an efficient but officious guard who delayed us momentarily.

The Briefing

The heart of the facility was a high–tech briefing room where Mr J undertook the remainder of the briefing. In outline the situation was much as we had already been told but further details were now provided. Most notably we were shown a series of security camera photos taken at one city’s parking lots late on the 12th of January which showed the final moments of Agent Baines. Apparently Baines had been trailing Lux when the cult leader turned and confronted him – the images provided no firm evidence of an attack, only showing Lux gesturing towards the agent, who then fell to earth, clutching his chest. The moment of death was apparently accompanied by a burst of unidentified radiation, which badly affected the cameras and remains unexplained. An autopsy revealed that Baines had died of a massive Myocardial Infarction – in laymen’s terms from a devastating heart attack. There were no wounds apparent on the body. !

This college lecture room made for a great briefing room!

Lux was a mystery man, he had no records of any description, no clue to his true identity. During their observation of him Scott and Baines determined that he possessed a considerable knowledge of surveillance and counter surveillance techniques and probably had an intelligence background. He only appeared in his present guise a few months ago, as the founder of the Church of the Amber  Light. Did he come here to make contact with the scientists at the Gilman Foundation. We could only speculate.

The rest of the briefing gave us details about West and his social contacts, featuring most prominently his current girlfriend, a legal secretary called Sally Nichols who also lived in the city and was also a member of the Church of the Amber  Light.

Patrick Harper and Agent Fox asked Mr J. a number of questions concerning our ‘rules of operation’ and our security clearance. It was no great surprise to discover that this mission was being run on a ‘need to know’ basis and we plainly didn’t need to know. The first alarm bells began to ring at this point – in such situations that which you don’t know can well kill you if you’re not very careful.

Our mission objectives were outlined to us and Mr J. made it clear that on no account were we to interfere with West – he was not expendable, we were. He’d probably have been wise not to point that out, professional intelligence operatives might be willing to put their lives on the line for Queen and Country but historians, journalist and psychics have a different take on the matter.

At the end of the briefing Mr J. provided us with dossiers on the central players in this little ‘drama’ and departed, leaving a number if we needed to get in contact with him.

Scott then led us to the mortuary attached to the facility where the deceased agent’s body was being held. An autopsy had already been carried out by a Home Office pathologist but revealed only what we had already heard from Mr J.

Alan played the corpse! This involved laying very still a long time

We were shown into the examination room where the body lay waiting. Agent Scott and the facility director, Mr Benjamin, maintained their composure but the corpse made the rest of us distinctly nervous. Obviously in my time as a journalist I’ve seen many unfortunate sights and dead bodies have been among them but that was with the backdrop of war and distant lands, not laid bare (so to speak) on a sterile slab in the heart of Cheltenham. My comrades seemed equally reluctant to make a close examination of the body, even Agent Jones, whose strong soldier’s stomach wasn’t up to the task. We were preparing to leave when Billy asked if he could be left alone with the body – Fox, Jones and I were a little surprised at this but Patrick persuaded us to leave the Psychic alone while he employed his own special methods.

I questioned Agent Scott about the autopsy while we awaited the quiet Irishman’s return and learned that small particles of a foreign substance had been found on the body. I surmised that Lux must have thrown some powder or dust at Baines, though what its nature was and how it related to the radiation burst was still unclear. We were also given a flyer found on Baines when he died, which indicated that the Church of the Amber Light was holding a meeting at six that very evening. Scott expressed considerable surprise at this, in the past the cult had only met on Sundays.

Alan still holding his breath!

Moments later Billy returned, looking pale and haggard. He needed a few moments to recover before telling us that the unfortunate agent had been destroyed by a terrible occult force that had burnt out his very soul. Billy’s eyes darted furtively about and had clearly been seriously disturbed by the whole event.

A few years ago I would have dismissed this tale as mere gibberish but, having seen what I saw amid those dark stones in the jungles of Borneo, I could not dismiss it out of hand.

Ushered out of the facility by Mr. J we repaired to the college diner to make our plans.

Plans and Plots

In the corner of the large local eating-house we examined the documents which Mr J. had provided us with and laid our plans. The files indicated that West would be at work at the Gilman Institute until seven, a fact which would allow us time to break into his rooms before he returned. There should also be time to get to the Gilman Foundation in time to follow him when he left work. It was also felt that we needed to know more about the Church of the Amber Light and their strangely scheduled meeting would provide the perfect opportunity to discover the nature of the group and Lux’s role within it.

Well even players need to eat sometime!

It seemed logical to split into two groups, one to handle the break–in at West’s and the other to infiltrate this increasingly sinister cult.

Given the allegedly New Age nature of the cult it seemed logical that Billy be the one to infiltrate their meeting. Unfortunately whatever it was he saw when he ‘sensed’ the body still had him seriously upset and more than a little frightened. He would only agree to go in if he had company and this would logically be provided by Patrick, the two of them having been thick as thieves throughout the day so far. The jittery Billy was still not reassured so it was decided that Agent Jones should wait outside the meeting place, ready to leap to their assistance should anything go seriously wrong.

That left Agent Fox and I to deal with the break-in and the tailing of West. In order to balance out the teams Agent Scott agreed to assist us. It was clear that with my skill at electronics and Fox’s array of intelligence techniques we should have had what it took to get the job done.

As the Light meeting was taking place quite close to the hostelry Patrick, Billy and Jones remained there. Meanwhile Karl, Heather and I made our way back to the safe house to pick up the pool car which had been issued to Fox and collect the first aid kit which had been provided.

Before we set out for West’s apartment I made use of the computer at ‘base’ to check out West and the Gilman Foundation. It was obvious that we wouldn’t find anything on either on official Website so I made a quick check of ‘conspiracy theorist’ ‘sites. I could find nothing on West but mention was made of links between the Gilman Foundation and the [[Censored]] a covert project dedicated to the development and exploitation of psychic abilities. In view of what had already occurred a very disturbing pattern was beginning to appear.

The Church of the  Amber Light

While Fox, Scott and I did our work amid the shadows the others made their way to the meeting of the Church of the Amber Light. Their plan was for Patrick and Billy to attend the cult meeting in the guise of interested newcomers while Jones remained outside, ready to rush in and help or make a quick getaway as the situation required.

The two Irishmen arrived fashionably late at the ‘Church’ meeting, which was also located on the college campus. On entering they found a group of cultists, including the chief suspect, Sebastian Lux, and West’s girlfriend, Miss Nichols. There were four others, two of whom appeared to be regulars. Lux came across as a quiet, reasonable individual who led his group of followers through a combination of charisma and sheer force of will.

Chris as Sebastian Lux made a superbly sinister cult leader!

Billy used his psychic gifts to investigate the other cultists, learning that one of the regulars had a dark aura that indicated a terrible history of abusing the innocent and other such foul acts. Nichols was also interesting for Billy could sense in her a kindred spirit – a young lady possessed of psychic gifts similar to his own. Unfortunately her aura was also twisted and bore the marks of recent corruption and deviance – indications that would become clearer when we knew more of her history.

The two agents listened as Lux expounded the philosophy of his Church, explaining that they believed in total freedom. It quickly became clear to my colleagues that this meant not merely personal or political freedom but total freedom from the constraints enforced by society and the morality of the common man. The investigators could tell that the seductive lure of this code, combined with church leader’s own sinister presence created followers who were dedicated to this later day Mephistopheles.

At this juncture Lux asked if the two agents would like to take place in one of the cult’s meditations, which involved the use of what appeared to be New Age crystals. Both men were distinctly wary of Lux’s invitation and politely refused, asking if they could watch instead. As the meditation went on Billy could detect the flow of precious soul energy leaching out of the Church’s initiates and into the crystals, a sight which disturbed the psychic considerably.

After the meditation the Church meeting wound down but Lux extended an invitation to the agents to join, informing them that the  Light already had branches all over Europe. After that he departed and the Irishman lost sight of him. Sergeant Jones saw him as he entered the college car park but the ‘rock ape’ could do nothing, he had no gun and couldn’t leave before joining up with Patrick and Billy.

Misdemeanours and Misdirection

While Billy, Patrick and Jones infiltrated the cult Fox, Scott and I made our way to West’s apartment. We had to make use of the pool car issued to Fox, a serviceable enough vehicle but a far cry from the BMWs and Aston Martins which he was more familiar with. Agent Scott recommended leaving the car a short distance away and proceeding on foot, partly due to the mundane problems of parking and partly to avoid linking us with the car, should we need it to avoid pursuit.

A short walk through the city’s night enshrouded streets brought us to our objective, West’s apartment building. As befitted the home of a well – paid government scientist the security was formidable – indeed Fox had a great deal of trouble with the sophisticated door locks. Fortunately I’ve been called on to defeat such things in the past and our combined efforts gained access to the building.

Luck remained with us, for we didn’t encounter any of the building’s other residents as we quickly made our way to his first floor flat. The security on the flat wasn’t as formidable as that at the building entrance and was easily bypassed. The three of us entered the flat and began a quick but thorough search. Agent Fox quickly discovered a collection of badly damaged papers in the top of West’s waste paper bin. They appeared to be the text of a play, “The King in Yellow”, and were covered with scrawled notes, equations and diagrams. We were in two minds whether we should take the notes, if we did then West would certainly know someone had been in his flat but ultimately we had no choice – there was simply to much information to assimilate quickly. I did consider taking photos of them but there would be no time to develop the pictures and so dismissed that plan. A further search revealed a hastily scribbled message on a pad by the phone which indicated that Lux and West were due to meet up at Taylors at eight that evening. Although no further immediately relevant information was found we did discover further notes referring to Bonisagus, Tremere, Tytalus etc – apparently the names of medieval hermetic orders. West’s bookcase was also stocked with tomes on the Undead and other tomes which indicated an interest in the occult unusual for a physicist with his apparently high reputation. I paused briefly to place a bug under West’s sofa and we then departed.

Fox passed the information about the meeting at Taylors to Jones and the others and we returned to the car to see what we could make of the tattered notes that had been discovered. In the limited time we had available we could make out little concerning the play itself but the scribbled sidenotes proved a revelation. Many of them were complex mathematical equations whose meaning proved impossible to fathom but others referred to a ‘summoning’ and seemed to indicate that it would occur sometime between eleven and midnight. A chill ran down my spine, for I could not help remembering the terrible rituals used by the witchdoctors of Borneo to summon their dark gods. Much of what appeared on the tattered pages before me reminded me of those madmen and the bloody horrors they practised. References to Schrodinger’s Cat indicated that West’s field of work involved exploration of the Quantum universe. This presented the terrible possibility that a brilliant scientist whose field of work was multi– dimensional physics might be devoting his twisted intellect to breaching the barriers between our world and more alien realms.

A number of diagrams were also present, they meant little to me but Fox divined some occult significance in them. Patrick would later identify them as a representation of the Cabalistic Tree of Life and then that same pattern reversed. Other marginalia contained astronomical references and the phrase “Goodbye Norma Jean” appeared more than once. It took me some time to realise that this may be a veiled reference to psychic phenomena … Goodbye Norma Jean … Candle in the Wind …  – a tenuous connection but not too far fetched given the muddy waters which we were now navigating.

There was more to be discovered but Agent Scott pointed out that time was marching on and West would soon be leaving work and we’d have to hurry to be in place to follow him.

The three of us abandoned the car once again and made our way out onto the darkened streets of Cheltenham, rapidly making our way to the Gilman Foundation. Scott felt that the research centre might have valuable secrets to reveal and suggested we try to gain entrance. I was dubious, it was only a little before seven and West would be emerging shortly – there didn’t seem to be the time to learn anything before our target appeared. Not daunted by these difficulties Karl Fox strode boldly up to the Foundation’s entrance and tried to bluff his way past the two security guards who barred his way. He tried to persuade them that he was making an important delivery but the lack of any appropriate paperwork, not to say any form of package, made this story a good deal less credible. He rejoined me having failed to gain entrance.

We were continuing our watch on the building when we saw a beautiful young woman leave. She approached us as we loitered by a strategically placed phone box, ostensibly looking for a light for her cigarette. Both Fox and I realised that this was an ideal opportunity to find out more about the work carried out at the Foundation – therefore Karl rushed over the road to buy her a box of matches while I made small talk. It was at this point that West emerged from work and managed to evade our eagle – eyed surveillance. His ability to slip by us so easily proved that he was a master of disguise, a veritable man of a thousand faces, clearly possessing a formidable range of counter- espionage skills.

Although our target had eluded us initially I regret to say that we allowed ourselves to become side-tracked by the female stranger from the Foundation. In a distinctive American accent we were informed that her name was Alice and she was one of Alec West’s co-workers. Posing as old college friends of West’s from Cambridge we attempted to discover what she knew.

Karl used his suave charms to try and pry information out of the young American but every question was parried with a cunning counter-thrust. I must say that I had no greater luck with my queries, although Alice did hint that she might see West later. While we questioned her, trying to discover what she knew about Alec West and his work, we were led away from the man we were actually supposed to be following. The dark–haired American asked if we would like to go for a drink and Karl, motivated only by a desire to further our investigation I’m sure, accepted on our behalf. We were on our way to a nearby pub when Agent Fox received a desperate message from Billy, warning us that we were in terrible danger from whoever we were with and imploring us to get away from whoever it was immediately. Given the direction the investigation had taken we were in no mood to question Billy’s mysterious hunches so we made our apologies to a slightly puzzled Alice and departed.

It later occurred to me that we had been the victims of a cunning piece of misdirection, a classic honey-trap with the alluring Alice tasked with drawing us away to discover what we knew while West made his escape. I also realised that I’d missed an opportunity to gain more information by bugging the matchbox, which Fox could then have given to the young woman.

We decided to meet up with the other team back at the safehouse in order to compare notes and make further plans.

Taylors and Tailing

When we arrived at the safehouse we found Billy, Patrick and Jones awaiting our return. They’d apparently been there for some time, employing the comprehensive library for the purposes of research. Their diligence had unearthed a number of important facts, in particular that the College campus where we had received our briefing had been the site of a Neolithic temple to an ancient deity called Hazzur. The site had been adorned with pillars in a layout that closely resembled that which West had scawled on the back of his copy of “The King in Yellow”. It seemed possible that this could be the site where this midnight ritual may occur.

We still didn’t possess enough information to work out what was going on – clearly West was heavily involved with Lux and his cult but their overall objective was still shrouded in mystery. To try and pierce this shroud we decided to split up again. We realised that we must observe the meeting between Lux and West at Taylors but the task of close observation must fall on Sergeant Jones. Lux had seen Billy and Patrick and West might well be accompanied by Alice, who would definitely recognise Karl and I and probably wonder why we hadn’t approached our old college friend.

Trying to piece it all together!

Billy and Patrick decided to go along with Jones in case he got into difficulties. Meanwhile Karl, and I decided to take this opportunity to check out the home of West’s girlfriend, Susie Nichols, rejoining the others at Taylors in time to follow West and Lux when they left. Agent Scott concurred with this plan but warned us that, although Susie Nichols shouldn’t be home there was a good chance her flatmate, Sheena, would be. This could have presented difficulties so I suggested making our way to their flat and ringing them while we waited nearby, telling Sheena that her flatmate had been in a terrible accident and had been taken to hospital. When she left to rush to her friend’s side we’d break in and search the place. Unfortunately it seemed that their phone was ex-directory, so that plan had to be abandoned.

As we made our way along the city’s night-enfolded highways Karl and I continued to work on a coherent approach to the problem of the flatmate. We eventually settled on a solution close to the truth.

On arrival at the flat we knocked and waited for a reply, the moment it was opened Karl and I quickly presented our Cassandra 23 credentials. Karl informed the alarmed young lady that we were government representatives and needed to talk to her about her flatmate. Ushered into a comfortable living room the smooth-talking secret agent explained that we had reason to believe that her flatmate, Susie had been involved in a possible breach of national security and we needed to search her room. Not unnaturally Sheena was unhappy about letting total strangers gain access to her friend’s belongings but was ultimately persuaded that the consequences of denying our request would be serious indeed.

We were led up a short flight of stairs and shown into Susie’s room. The room was then searched by Karl, I assisted with suggestions but didn’t want to get in the way of the professional. Our search was a little tentative, neither Karl nor I were entirely comfortable examining the belongings of a woman who might well be totally innocent of any wrongdoing. The initial examination revealed nothing of relevance to the case so Fox decided, after a helpful suggestion from Agent Scott, to search around Susie’s bed. A glance under her pillow revealed a neatly kept diary, which, after only a moment’s reading, promised to be a valuable piece of evidence against West.

Sheena protested when we tried to remove the diary but was cowed into submission by Fox who warned her that her friend was in serious trouble and she would be too if she stood in the way of our investigation. As we prepared to leave I took a last glance around the bedroom and realised that the banner affixed to the wall above the bed was very familiar. The sign on it was almost identical to one which West had drawn on the back of the “King in Yellow” play notes. I began to feel dizzy as I gazed at the strange ideogram and I remember nothing else for some time.

At this point subject savage appears to have lapsed into sleep. The following is a transcript of the incoherent babblings he made during this period of rest.

The Yellow sign. THE YELLOW SIGN.THE YELLOW SIGN Lost CARCOSSA. HAzzUR, HAZTAR, HASTUR ………… THE STARS ARE RIGHT, THE STARS are RIGHT. Hail the KING in YELLOW. Fortunate are those who will serve the Yellow King.

Subject Savage appeared to regain consciousness and the transcript becomes more lucid.

Apparently the mere sight of the … Yellow Sign … temporarily unhinged my mind. According to Karl I spent the next ten minutes or so babbling incoherently to him as he and Scott led me towards Taylors where we were to rendezvous with the others.

Eventually I shook off the madness that had gripped me and regained my senses. I had not, however, emerged unscathed from the experience, for the world around seemed colder and more hostile and casual looks from strangers sent shivers down my spine. Memories of Borneo came flooding back and with them a feeling of dread that I should encounter such madness in the urbane streets of Cheltenham.

Karl told me that diary we had found contained disturbing material concerning Lux and West but he felt it would be better to read it through carefully when we met up with the others. That decided we hurried to the rendezvous at Taylors bar.

While we were searching Susie’s flat the others had made their way to Taylors and a later meeting with the other three agents allowed me to fill in the details of what occurred before we arrived.

While we continued our careers as burglars the other agents made their way to Taylors to await the arrival of Lux and his compatriots. The plan was for Jones to wait in the main area of the bar, watching the door for the Cult leader’s arrival, while the other Cassandra 23 agents would go to a side area and wait for Jones to fill them in on what was occurring.

While Patrick and Billy were waiting two strangers, one a seductive young American girl and the other a personable local, joined them at their table. The Irishmen quickly struck up a rapport with the two newcomers and Billy in particular was taken with the young woman, who seemed very taken with him, continually taking hold of his arm and stroking his hand.

Meanwhile Jones had decided that the best way to blend into the background was to get a drink in hand and watch the bar’s television. Unfortunately the RAF soldier became so engrossed in his role that he failed to notice Lux and the others entering the bar.

The first the two other agents knew of the cult’s arrival was when they sat down at a table directly behind the two of them. This caused a good deal of alarm as both Patrick and Billy had assumed that Jones would warn them of Lux’s arrival in good time.

Shortly after this their conversation with the two newcomers also took a disturbing turn, when Patrick asked the woman her name. She replied that she was called Alice. Patrick realised that this might be the same woman who had sparred with Karl and I only an hour earlier – Billy seemed oblivious to this fact as he continued to chat with the two strangers. Not wishing to raise a false alarm the cautious historian used their mobile to contact Karl, gaining a description of Alice from the spy. It confirmed Patrick’s worst fears and he quickly extricated Billy and himself from a situation that was becoming very disturbing. He phoned Karl and I to inform us of their plans and then the three of them left Taylor’s.

It was after eight when Karl and I arrived outside the plush exterior of Taylors and out arrival was timely for moments after Billy, Patrick and Jones emerged from the bar, closely followed by Lux, West and a number of others whom I later learned were other cultists. After a quick conference we decided to follow them, splitting into two teams to watch from either side of the road as they moved off. It was at this point that Agent Jones tried to get in front of them by cutting down a side street, unfortunately his limited knowledge of the city’s streets played him false and he became lost for a short while.

Left short handed the remainder of the cell continued to tail the cultists, using what cover there was to avoid being seen. Although our quarry made no effort to lose us the wide and well–lit streets of Cheltenham provided little cover for the pursuers and we were often at risk of losing them as we dropped back to avoid being observed. Our numbers decreased further when Karl had to go back to locate Jones and re-unite him with the rest of the Cell, leaving only Billy, Patrick, Heather and I to continue the pursuit. Heather and I kept as close as possible to the cultists as they followed their winding path through the darkened streets while the two Irishmen hung back. At a corner they turned down a narrow alleyway and I hurried to catch them.

Given the shock I had already received I was beginning to feel a little on edge and the site of this narrow alleyway with ample spots for anyone waiting in ambush began to worry me intensely. My fears grew when it appeared that Patrick and Billy, who had been only a little behind Heather and I apparently disappeared – we waited as long as we could but were eventually forced to renew our pursuit, now unaware of the location of the rest of the Cell.

It was past nine and darkness surrounded us but as the cultists past through the pools of light thrown by pathside lamp posts I was aware of how many of them there were and the fact that Heather and I were the only members of Cassandra 23 left on their tail. My fears grew when they crossed a large open area that I took to be wasteland until Scott told me that it was in fact the very spot where Agent Baines had perished, not ten days ago. I didn’t fully trust her and the fact that she was my only help if the cultists turned to attack was cold comfort indeed. As Lux and his followers reached the edge of the ‘wasteland’ they appeared to meet up with two figures that passed them by and began walking straight towards Heather and I. For a brief moment I feared that we were about to be attacked by further servitors of the sinister Lux but, as they came closer, we could plainly see that the two figures were none other than the missing Irishmen.

Apparently Patrick and Billy had decided to try the same ploy as Jones, reasoning that they should be able to get ahead of the cultists by cutting up the road rather than turning down the alley after Heather and I. They planned to take the first right turn they came to, believing that this would put them in front of our quarry – unfortunately there were no right turns. Nonetheless they persevered, racing up the road and eventually walking straight into Lux and the others and they turned the corner from the Wasteland onto the main drag. The two Irishmen congratulated themselves on their brilliant ploy, I personally felt that they been very lucky but, on reflection, it may have been Billy’s psychic abilities leading him along the correct path.

After ascertaining which of the houses the cultists were headed to we awaited the arrival of Jones and Fox.

When we all got back together Karl got out Susie Nichol’s diary and read it out to us. It was a revelation, confirming our suspicions about the Church of the Light and its leader. The journal was a shocking account of an innocent’s descent into degradation and sexual depravity and proved beyond doubt that West was involved in these dubious activities up to his well-educated eyes. The diary also made mention of Alice, whose role seemed to be that of acolyte or priestess to Lux’s Pontifex Maximus. It ended with the once innocent legal secretary apparently praying devoutly for the coming of a person or creature called the Yellow King who would release her from her worldly cares and change everything. The Cell was, to a man, sure that the arrival of this King in Yellow must be halted at all costs.

The diary showed that we had entered some Conradian heart of darkness, where the promise of forbidden desires sated and terrible lusts fulfilled had stripped away the veneer of civilisation from a group of seemingly normal people. Is that all it took to regress these individuals five thousand years and send them screaming chants of worship to the dark powers that dwelt in an unforgiving sky? What a terrible thought!

Pondering these disturbing thoughts we were led by Agent Scott back across the car park. She pointed out to us the spot where Baines had been slain by the mysterious Sebastian Lux. While Billy meditated in an attempt to regain some of his composure the rest of us examined the scene. Unfortunately the fact that we had neglected to bring torches with us made a detailed search difficult but we did eventually discover that the ground had a fine covering of some form of dust, presumably the foreign substance found on Baines’ body. It seemed clear that this was a component of some form of weapon that had been hurled or projected at the unfortunate agent in order to bring on a massive heart attack.

Guns in the Darkness

Agent Scott had assured us that the cultists’ house was under surveillance while we examined the crime scene but when we turned to check Lux and his followers had apparently made their getaway. Both Patrick and I were now very suspicious of Scott and resolved to keep a careful eye on her.

Having missed the cult the Cell decided to break into their meeting place and see if they’d left any clues to their intentions. We approached the building cautiously with the TOYmen to the fore. Sergeant Jones led the way with Agent Fox dogging his steps. While Patrick, Billy and I watched the street the two other Cassandra operatives entered the darkened terraced house that was apparently acting as the cult’s temporary headquarters. A narrow hallway opened out beyond the door, with stairs straight ahead and two doors on the left – Jones made his way down the dimly lit passageway, followed a little distance behind by Fox. A brief glance into the first room revealed nothing. Upon opening the second door, Jones was met by the sight of strangely garbed man and a room, illuminated by ceremonial candles and decorated in a most disturbing fashion. The robed figure demanded to know why his house had been broken into and who we were, receiving know answer he picked up a wicked looking blade and charged at Jones.

Alan again, this time playing an evil cultist!

The cultist’s blade flashed in the candlelight as he rushed forward … Fox’s gun roared but a single bullet could not still the mad intent of the attacker … a blade honed to razor sharpness sliced through flesh and muscle, a scarlet rain fell to the floor … Jones’ fired, committing the madman’s soul into the care of the dark creatures he worshipped … faint from loss of blood the Sergeant slumped to the ground.

The first screams sent Billy and Patrick rushing into the house to help – the sight of the bloodstained bodies and the terrible Yellow Signs, which adorned the walls, proved too much for Patrick’s overstrained psyche. He swept up Jones’ gun and, speaking an unintelligible gibberish, emptied the clip into the supine form of the corpse.

By the time I entered the room the others had already begun to search. I assisted them but the Yellow Signs exerted an oppressive menace and somewhat clouded my thoughts. The other decorations were no more comforting … the works of De Sade, the Devil’s Bible, a human skull, all spoke of minds broken by prolonged exposure to the monstrous, to the unearthly. Agent Fox stumbled on a more complete copy of the “King in Yellow” but found its contents so disturbing that, within moments of reading it, he was shacking uncontrollably, apparently afflicted by delirium tremens. Fortunately Patrick managed to control the affliction by striking the quaking Fox about the face a number of times.

The others were more successful in their searches, discovering a number of documents, apparently written in blood, which indicated that the Cult planned to carry out some ritual or other within an hour on Crickley Hill, overlooking the city.

At the time the obvious course seemed to be to get up to the Hill and prevent them from carrying out their sinister plans. Unfortunately, because we’d tailed the cultists for quite a time we were now some distance from the pool cars, which would probably prevent us from stealing a march on our foes. Without the first aid kit it was impossible to treat Jones’ wound so we decided that he and the two Irishmen should leave first to give them enough time for the crippled soldier to get to their car. As Jones shuffled off we three remaining agents examined the remaining documents which were scattered around the Cultist’s hideout. None of them were immediately relevant to our investigation but they were, nonetheless, most disturbing. I read through the diary of a child who apparently lived in the West Virginia coalfields in the early 1920s, at about the time of Coalfield Wars. Much of it seemed innocuous but there were certain passages … certain passages that …

At this point subject savage apparently lapsed into unconsciousness again. The following is a transcript of what he said while he slept.

Mother took her AXE and gave the MINERS forty whacks … WhoSE fOr DINNER TONight MuMmy ???
The DaRk OnE watCHES over us ALL … The thOUsand FACed MAN …
ThE ST A RS AR E Right … The STARS a r e Right !!!

Subject regains consciousness at this point.

Ehm … Er … Where was I? Oh yes … the diary … very disturbing indeed … that poor child.

… Unfortunately although the diary spoke of the Cult’s interest in the macabre it was of little use to us at that moment, but I did take it with me for further perusal. There were many disturbing images found between the covers.

Having given the others a little time to get on their way Agents Scott, Fox and I made our way back to our own pool car and Fox began the drive towards Crickley Hill.

Hills of Madness

On our way to the Crickley Hill rendezvous Fox and I discussed what we had learnt and it struck us that the cultists had probably been aware of our interest in their activities ever since we burgled West’s flat. Therefore anything we had learnt since then might be a plant, an attempt to trap us by drawing us to a location of their choosing for a confrontation. This belief was reinforced by the fact the all of the earlier information we had pointed to a ceremony being held much closer to midnight and probably down at the ancient Neolithic site beneath the college’s student bar. The more we thought about it the more sure we were that there was something suspicious about the ease with which we’d discovered their hilltop meeting place. However we ultimately decided that, although it would be worth mentioning it to our fellow agents when we got together again, we couldn’t ignore this meeting because we would risk loosing track of them if our guess about the college was wrong.

Agent Scott suggested that we meet up with the others at a pub called the “Air Balloon” before we actually made our way to the hillside. When we did meet up Fox and I outlined our fears concerning the possibility that a trap awaited us. The others were not convinced, Billy in particular felt drawn to the hill by some mystic guide and was sure that terrible things might occur if we didn’t intervene. Fox and I agreed but felt that some sort of plan might be in order, but the others didn’t share this view so we settled on the “muddling through” policy once again.

A short drive took us to a viewpoint high above Cheltenham and its near neighbour Gloucester. The constellations of warm yellow street lights provided a welcome link to civilisation but they were mocked from above by the naked stars, continually emerging and fading back into the scudding grey white clouds. I had never looked at the heavens with more trepidation than I did now, knowing that once sane men and women believed that forces dwelt among those distant suns, forces god-like and terrible. Still less comforting was the baleful, unblinking gaze of Aldeberaan, located exactly where West had predicted.

Our unease turned to dread when faint plaintive cries were carried to us on the wind. We made our way towards them but as we did so they changed their tone and became a strange, inhuman chant. Speed was now of the essence so we made our way over small hillocks and around obstructing trees, ever following that terrible sound. Creeping over a low rise we could see them at last. The cult was clustered together on a strange wooden platform and were screaming blasphemies into the night sky. From the distance I was it was difficult to make out numbers but, silhouetted against the star filled sky, with their arms and voices raised in praise of dark things there seemed all too many.

Equipped only with my trusty Kodak there was little I could do but once again the TOYmen came to the fore. Jones, Fox and Scott used the nearby bushes as cover to creep closer to the cultists. As they did so the cult’s ceremony seemed to reach a crescendo and indescribable alien sound echoed across the lonely English hilltop.

Jones later told me that it was at this point that he, Fox and Scott were waylaid by an “alien” who seemed to emerge from nowhere, almost within touching distance of Jones. They described a terrible beast, vaguely anthropomorphic but with long ropy tentacles in place of arms and a huge bestial head. This horror shuffled slowly towards the wounded Jones, reaching towards him with its terrible limbs but, with a supreme effort of will the Welshman ignored his maimed leg and ran from this apparition. As he fled the hillside echoed to the crack of pistols being rapidly fired, for both Fox and Scott pumped round after round into the shambling creature, with little initial effect. The horror absorbed enough punishment to stop ten men but, thankfully, the bullets began to have some effect, first slowly it and eventually dropping the creature in its tracks. Its haunting alien cry sounded once again as it faded slowly from sight.

Bernard the Dimensional Shambler - not the best monster costume we ever made, but in that lonely spot at night, the cries of terror from the players were real enough!

While the TOYmen battled the Shambler the other cultists scuttled off, having successfully sprung their trap. Before the Cultists could escape they were waylaid by Billy who hurled a psychic attack at Alice, who was among their number. Unfortunately Alice was apparently no mere cult member but some form of priestess or high acolyte for her own occult might was more than a match for the plucky young Irishman and she sent him away, momentarily stunned by the backlash from his failed assault. As Patrick dragged Billy away I saw the cultists departing in a tightly packed group, I considered waylaying them but didn’t like the odds so I watched as they departed and then went to join the others.

Although we had triumphed over the creature it was obvious that our devious opponents had led us into a trap. Luckily we’d managed to survive their terrifying hunting beast and were now more resolved than ever to stop these deluded lunatics before they could do any more damage.

Quickly making our way back to the cars it was decided that we should head back to the safehouse to prepare for our final confrontation with Lux and his followers. The climax to this evening of terror would come at midnight, where we were now sure the cult leader and his followers would attempt to stage the “King in Yellow” in order to summon one of these terrible star creatures from whatever distant hell it hailed. They must be stopped!!! Billy and Patrick believed that disrupting the ceremonial aspects of the play would be even more important than incapacitating the participants … an assumption that seemed reasonable enough.

The Play’s the Thing

As the midnight hour approached the Agents of Cassandra 23 gathered their courage and strode out into the cold, clear night for their rendezvous with destiny. Fortunately the college was only a short walk from the safehouse so we arrived in time to foil their dreadful scheme.

As we approached the curtain clad exterior wall of their makeshift theatre we could see that they must already be within, for shafts of yellow light escaped from chinks in the curtains and the rhythmic metre of that play could be heard. We crept in through a sidedoor and surveyed the scene before us. The student bar had been converted into a cross between a temple and a theatre, with a black, shroud bedecked stage at the back and seven pillars decorated with the mark of the Yellow Sign.

Staguing a fictional cursed play is harder than it sounds, but Amanda wrote the music, I did the script, and it was bloody weird and freaky to watch!

Creeping forward Jones and I went down the shadowed left side of the area while Billy and Patrick moved onto the central stairway which faced the stage, hoping to distract the players from their purpose. Across on the other side of the room Fox and Scott were moving towards the stages. As we moved forward we tore the Yellow Signs from their places, our actions accompanied by the eerie cadences of some sinister chant and the play’s haunting music. The players were clad in costume as befitted their roles and had their faces covered with theatrical masks, which made them seemed even more detached from the normal people we actually knew them to be. Despite our efforts the play seemed to have a life of its own and the players moved like automata, simply fulfilling their parts…

All of the Signs had been cast aside but the play still moved inexorably towards its climax … both Jones and Fox believed that the time for quiet action was over and prepared to shoot the cultists off the stage. Fox leapt out into the central aisle, directly in front of the stage and levelled his gun, he warned the cultists to stop but received no reply so once again a gunshot reverberated into the night. One of the players slumped to the floor but the play continued on without a pause, apparently beginning to reach its climax.

In desperation Fox glanced around and saw a pattern of strange crystals arranged on a table just in front of him. He swept his arm down and scattered the crystals and as he did so the summoning collapsed. Some of the weaker cultists collapsed but, before we could apprehend him, Lux pulled off his mask and muttered a few words of an antediluvian tongue then leapt backwards through an mind-numbing ‘tear’ in the air behind him and disappeared.

The Aftermath

We had succeeded in preventing the arrival of the “King in Yellow” but Lux had escaped. Furthermore some comments were made by the local authorities about a number of suspicious deaths in the Cheltenham area that evening but Cassandra 23 dealt with them. Most of us look forward to meeting Mr J. again to express our gratitude for all the help he and the Department had provided.

The fate of the Cultists is not totally clear. We couldn’t prove that they’d committed any serious crimes but most of them were so badly affected by the failure of the summoning that their minds were broken – these we had no difficulty in getting them sectioned. Unfortunately the innocents who had been corrupted by Lux were now beyond saving.

What really concerns me is what happened to West and Alice. They were taken away by the authorities but I’ve been unable to determine their fate. Both of them are cunning and manipulative and could well escape their just deserts if they’re not carefully watched.

Concludes transcript of subject Savage’s recording. Suggest judicious alterations be made to reinforce subject’s paranoia concerning supernatural connections – case study 27a/mu indicates a high level of paranoia increases operative survival rates by 12.5%

File reference: cf23/bse/1 alpha/tptk/22-1-00

Well that was Pete’s excellent write up of the first game. If anyone has read this far and would be interested in playing in a similar game, do drop me a line, and maybe, just maybe, one day we will do it again!

cj x

Buy my new book and release your inner psychic powers! Out today!

Please note this was my 2011 April Fool’s Joke – it is NOT to be taken seriously!

 

Hello! I am very excited to announce my new book, detailing my spiritual adventures and a guaranteed path to unleashing your full psychic power! Reasonably priced, the book launch today will be accompanied by a book signing and I’ll also be performing auric realignment, spiritual massage and colonic irrigation of the chakras for the lucky few who get to attend the signing!

Just $126.66!

This book has it all, all the accumulated wisdom I have gained from studying at the feet of great masters. Once I doubted the very existence of psychic powers, but years of studying have slowly revealed to me the magical wisdom of my Danish ancestry, the healing power of hops, and the deep secrets of the multiverse. With this book you can master them too!!! Sceptics will laugh and point and write blogs about you, but armed with these powers you can turn Hayley Stevens and her ilk in to a frog. (I turned Susan Blackmore in to a newt…. she got better.)

Learn how to

* Attract women — by spiritual gravity! * Become irresistible to NICE men! * Develop your Auric Armour! * Summon pixies to do your house chores! *Remote Homeopathy! * The Von Juntz formula! * Dream your way to Riches! * Get research funding from the SPR! * Banish Wiseman and other household pests! *Read the Prunes! * Cast a Deadly Spell! * See through peoples clothes with the Intellego Animal rite! * Pass through the gates of Alkoth! *Locate the Holy Grail in Stafford Castle! *The Secret of the Godlearners! *What Olaus Wormius was too scared to translate in the Necronomicon! *Look sharper than a Supermodel! *Turn Sceptics in to Small Amphibians! * The Forbidden Secret of Mazille! * Fly without Ryan Air! * Improve your Quidditch Technique!

Let’s face it, bending spoons is so 1974. With my esoteric training you will be able to bend minds, starting with your own!!!

From the publishers website –

“CJ Romer is undoubtedly among one of the great mystics of our age, and a 7=6 Ineptus Exemptus of the Order of the Silver Twilight. In this book he finally reveals the results of years of occult study at Durenmar, his mastery of the obscure tomes of Bonisagus, and his esoteric heroquest with his friend DC to find the legendary lost treasure of the Cathars. Learn how with a German Secret Master named Axel he rediscovered the lost secret of Remote Homeopathy, and  the terrible  inner secrets of Romerian Witchcraft. A practical Self-Initiation Guide, this book can make you EVERY BIT AS PSYCHIC AS CJ, GUARANTEED!!!!”

I do hope you will all rush out and buy a copy this morning???

cj x

CJ’s Halloween

Awful doggerel, but you get the spirit?  An autobiographical scream of angst!

 

 

It’s Halloween night as I shudder in fear

Heart racing as awful the hour draws near

I sweat and I tremble as soon I will see

The horrors they broadcast on Living TV

 

Now once Halloween was just a rap on my door

Kids proud of ASBOs, all covered in gore

They chuckle and threaten and extort from me

Still I’d rather be robbed than watch Living TV

 

Back in the 90′s I ran Cheltenham’s ghost team

My insane committee would force me to scream

But I’d rather be infamous with the C.P.R.G.

Than  the bathos of tonight’s show on Living TV

 

Teaching students about psi was a dreary fate

They’d mess up my ghost hunts, get drunk, and date

The Student Society knew little para-psychology

But a million times more than shown on Living TV

 

I read through the musty journals of the famed SPR

I took long coach rides to London, having no car

Grosse, Cornell, Cassirer and Playfair taught me

Yet none will be heard from this eve on Living TV

 

I know I have sinned, and whored myself for pay

I made a lot of paranormal TV, what can I say?

I signed on the dotted line, I needed cash you see

But it wasn’t all that bad, MY stuff for Living TV!

 

I got to meet Acorah, Yvette, Karl and the team

I lived in a nightmare that to some was a dream

Yet I felt they were good hearted and I took my fee

I’m proud I worked backstage for ANTIX and Living TV

 

So after Bad Psychics, JREF, UK Skeptics and more

I still felt the shows might open the door

To a popular understanding of topics dear to me

Yet now I realise that I sold my soul — to Living TV!

 

I’ve made so many dear friends, and enemies too

On the Most Haunted forum I’d sit an think through

Arguments and threads that were galling to me

But a million times better than Living TV!

 

So I’m filled with fear as the hours tick by

And I draw rapid breath as my fate I can scry

“Paranormal Investigation Live” is coming you see

And I scream then  curse subscribing to Living TV… 

Bad attempts at Fiction: The Case of the Haunted Dorm, part 1.

Introductory Remarks

Let’s just say this is fiction, though obviously I write about what I know. as authors are always told to. The problem is I often write so transparently about what I know that I could end up sued for libel, and that would be awkward. So I’ll try a short story, because I feel the urge to write, and the characters will be so unbelievable and preposterous that no one could possibly recognize themselves or real events in this. Honest, guv’nor.

For a while now I have been drafting stories about Lars Gunnarsen, a half-Danish psychic investigator, told by the narrator, who we will call CJ, because those are my initials. Lars is a true anti-hero- a swaggering  ghastly fellow, pompous, overbearing and badly dressed, who claims to be a parapsychologist and hangs around a university being old, fat and bald. You will be delighted to hear Lars does not actually appear at all  in this story so far as I have written it, because it’s only Part One.

Writing takes discipline and free time, and in my case endless editing, rewrites, and experiments in different tenses and perspectives. So I banged this out in “nne take”, and have fixed the obvious typos but not even read it back yet, so it’s abysmal. Hey, at least I’m honest.

In this story I went for the raconteur’s first person perspective – the narrator is telling a story of past events, and i’m not convinced it works at all. Nor as ghost stories go is it very exciting –  clumsy attempts at humour mar it, and it lacks any tension. It is designed to introduce the main protagonists of what was going to be a book, from when I stupidly thought about a collection of Lar’s misadventures as a “Psychic Detective.”  Still, I can’t write for toffee, but you might if really bored find it vaguely bearable – and if anyone enjoys it, I’ll post some more…

The Case of the Haunted Dorm

(being in the main the first great adventure of the magnificent Psychic Detective Lars Gunnarsen and his pathetic, dimwitted associates, as told by his friend and lackey, general dogsbody and social secretary, CJ).

All stories must begin somewhere, so mine begins here, in a shabby room in a college dormitory. It is now six days since I arrived at university; I have still never kissed a girl, driven a car or smoked dope, though I have conjured a spirit to visible appearance. I guess that counts  for something? Yes, I know you don’t believe me, and neither does anyone else – well except QC.

Still when Wicked Uncle QC announced he was gay, and I dropped my coffee on my lap in shock, and my other new friends made their excuses and left  (convinced he’d bugger them on the spot one presumes?), well what else could I boast of to change the subject?

I’d met QC in the refectory dinner queue my first afternoon, and he seemed a decent, bookish chap. Nothing about his tweeds, the beard or his fob watch said gay to me. He looked normal, human? How was I to know? I’d never met one of “them” before,,, So I’d  asked him back, and then this, my reputation in shreds, and an awkward silence as the door shut behind my new friends.

So I tell him of the August nights at the Priory, and he just laughed. Laughed — but believed me, a reaction far I found far more disturbing than the derision and scepticism I usually faced. And after my tale ended, he yanked open a bottle of wine with his penknife, and told me of his experiments with Crowley’s Magick. And I did not believe him, but it was so much better than “where are you from, what A levels did you do, what course are you on?” the name rank and serial number of Fresher’s Week. I suggested we walked to the Off License for another, even though I don’t drink.

That evening saw a terrible gale, and QC and I sitting on the racecourse stand, shouting words in to a wind that blew them spitefully back in our faces, drinking wine and laughing wildly  as lightning split the sky, laughing manically at obscure in-jokes.  Lovecraft, MR James, The Illuminatus Trilogy, Crowley. “Do what thou wilt with the hole in the floor!” I yelled, flailing my arms about. QC was trying to inscribe a pentagram with his right arm, but it had six horns exalted. (Note to the non-occultist reader – Normally pentagrams have one or two horns exalted, depending which way up they are, and only five horns total, but in QC’s drunken madness he seemed to achieve non-Euclidean geometry Lovecraft would be so proud of him!)

Maybe I was not seeing straight.  OK, we only drank two bottles of wine, and I less than half of one, but it was my initiation to alcohol. The storm wore itself out, and crawled off over the hills to die, and we strode back to the college, laughing in defiance at the rain and our sodden clothes. And as we entered the campus, I shook his hand, and slipped round to the other door. After all, could I really afford to be seen with a homosexual? People might think I was one!

That was three days ago. Now I’m listening to God’s Own Medicine, The Mission’s finest album, and trying to work out where I stowed my underwear when I unpacked. I’ve hand washed the same pair in the sink three times – the situation is rapidly becoming desperate. Grunge is still three years in the future – I’m no prophet, but I’m pioneering the look, but I’m far from happy to pioneer the smell. .I’ve considered soaking my leather jacket in patchouli oil, but somehow the idea of crusty underpants still repel me. I’m a mess, and a disorganized one, but I peel off the tired underpants, and half naked waving the disgusting things about my head, start to goth it up, a wild dance, failing my arms, pirouetting round the room, singing loudly “Heaven or Hell I know them well…”

So when six burly sports lads walk straight in to my room, I freeze red faced. I’m not one to deliberately reveal my shortcomings to the world. I grab the houseplant my sister gave me as a parting gift to cover my modesty. Somehow, the underpants which fly from my hand to the lampshade, and hang accusingly, and the feel of my nads on the terracotta pot do not comfort. I am, just slightly, phased. OK, I’m gulping back incipient tears.

Oddly, the lads do not seemed bothered at all. Instead, they just start laying out sleeping bags on my room floor, as another huge hairy guy comes in with a crate of Newcastle Brown ale. It appears they are here for a while, and they nod at me as they start rearranging furniture to make camp beds in what was till moments ago my personal space. “Put some clothes on mate” is all I get in way of explanation, and so I dash to the wardrobe, and pull out my dressing gown – and a pile of clean underpants cascade to the floor. A silver lining to my PE student cloud?

And so I came to first hear of ye famous ghost of Bluebell Halls. Well not immediately – but within a few minutes, the lads explained their entire block had fled their rooms, and were planning on staying out till someone got rid of the ghost. The Duty Warden was the Head of the PE Course, so they were not going to him.  Only two people on campus knew of such things, me and QC,, who they call the “Gay Nazi Wizard”. (QC has a fascination with the Third Reich – I’d noticed that already). So they has decided to take shelter with QC and I, half going to each. I inquired how they decided who got to stay with the GNW, and who got to stay with me. “We played cards” said hairy bloke –”and we lost”.

This place does nothing for your ego…

So, the facts? The students, all training as Sports Teachers, live in one of the new blocks. Less than twenty years old, the blocks are red brick structures each designated by a letter — ‘A Block’ to ‘H block’. They cluster round the edge of the playing fields that make up most of the campus, I live in the main building, an old Victorian hotel converted to a dorm, with the canteen just outside my window. The spook has driven the lads out of D Block, a building which as I say is no older than I am. In fact, from the little I have seen they look like Barratt homes new builds, converted to dorms. Nothing less spooky than that! Now the main building, that has an atmosphere, though it may just be the stench of stale socks, too much deodorant sweat and my now infamous underpants. Actually probably the latter. Oh well….

Yes, I’m getting on to the ghost. It haunts the stairwell, and every night at seven pm they hear it, all of them. They joked about it at first, but after three nights they started listening for it, and the jokes started to fall flat. On the fourth night they waited, and then hearing the spook panicked and fled outside. By the fifth night they were all hopelessly inebriated, and milling about in the lobby, loudly shushing each other, till it happened right on time. Tonight was the final straw, the most dogged sceptic converted. Clark had had the presence of mind to tape record it, and they would show me, so I could exorcise it. Exorcise it?!!! ME? WTF?

The tape was unenlightening. When I played it back an eerie silence descended upon the room, but that was the spookiest thing – watching these hefty lads listening entranced, fearful even, to a hissy cassette. Some swearing, lots of banging about, a few comments as they placed the recorder, then a slow rhythmic bumping. I was utterly unimpressed. “Where’s the ghost then?” They looked at me like I was an idiot. It seems the bumping was the ghost.

Just after seven, every evening, there was the same bumping sound on the stairs. Jack’s girlfriend noticed it first, while waiting for him in the lobby, and thought it was him coming down – but when she turned no one was there. The next night, two of them heard the footfall, as they were playfully strangling each other in some macho wrestling. And then, everyone started listening, and a senior student who had lived there a couple of years back had told them the horrible story that explained it all.

About fifteen years back a homesick Fresher, a girl with definite problems, could take it no more. She was a sports student, and unwilling to return to a troubled home life and admit defeat, she hanged herself at the top of the stairs. She stood there, balancing precariously on a medicine ball, and then let it slip from under her feet, bouncing down the stairs, as she gasped out her life.

Now it seems the tragedy replays – every October, around the anniversary, the haunting begins, and the sound of the ball bouncing down the stairs can be heard again.  Worse, some people feel a tightness in the chest, and a strangling sensation, and fight for breath as their legs go wobbly and their heart races, as they experience what the girl felt that night. If they don’t run, then they join her in death.

It all sounds pretty real to me. I have no idea what a medicine ball was, something graduate doctors might attend? I get the idea though – it’s American I’m told, a transatlantic version of a football or some such.  Bigger, supersized – it’s a Yank thing. My immediate thought was the lads were a great big bunch of wusses – I mean this does not sound  that scary to me. I looked over the thousand pounds of rippling muscle and humourless simian encamped on my floor, and decided to keep my thoughts to myself.

Worse, the expect me and QC to do something, get rid of it. Now ok, I’ve seen a  ghost I think, in a Priory on a summers evening scarcely a year ago, and some truly weird events things followed. I believe, I the arch-cynic, yes, I believe in spooks. I’ve started to collect the folklore of my home county, and I’ve read a lot of books, boring to death everyone as I pontificate on the subject of psychical research. Yet somehow the idea of being a ghosthunter seems a lot less attractive now – in the words of Ghostbusters –”they expect results”.

Now I’m not a ghostbuster – I’m a ghosthunter.  I hate exercise and exorcising about equally, or I would not be reading Religion and History, I’d be a sports student. I know nothing about magic, and my one attempt in that direction was enough to put me off for life.  Yet somehow admitting to these goons I had no idea how to deal with this: unthinkable. So  I  just nod, grab the keys to Martin’s room – he seemed fairly presentable, and I hate to think what might be in Chad’s room judging by the musky odour he exudes.  Walk right out, with what I hope is an air of solemn bravery and cool mystery, that “hero off to face unspeakable peril” air.

Then I return embarrassed, and put my jeans on, as my dressing gown robe flaps open, and I realise I’m still half naked.  It’s not like this in the movies.

I stride purposefully outside, and loiter in a shadowy corner, wondering when the next train for Suffolk leaves. And then an apparition manifests from across the yard. A ghostly figure wearing a linen suit and panama, carrying a tin box under the arm, and brandishing a cavalry sabre vigorously as it advances straight at me. It knows my name, and as I recoil in terror I finally recognize QC’s whisper, and look up from my cowering stance.

Er, yes I’m fine I assure him. Just a sudden attack of cramp. This man has no fashion sense. Or I don’t. Either way, it seems we really are going to spend the night in D Block. Yep, just me, the gay nazi wizard,and the malevolent murderous spook.

Now I could keep you in suspense, build atmosphere and tell you of how we held a long vigil in that lonely place while we whispered sagely of Secrets Man Was Not Meant To Know,a nd how the ghost manifested, and we bravely faced it down. I’d be lying.

D Block was actually much better than my room, positively modern, and while the heating seemed jammed on full and the pipes gurgles every so often, well it was pretty cosy. We turned all the lights on, examined the haunted stairwell, and then tried to peer in to the kitchen of  Block C across the way. Well I did, it’s a girls dorm. (Yes, I said kitchen. I’m not a pervert. That’s Lars, but he is not in my story yet.)

OK, so QC finds a couple of bottles of something called White Lightning in a cupboard, and a bottle of Scotch. I made toast and availed myself of their jam, and he cooked a full English breakfast half emptying the fridge,and we mutter about what we are going to do. And we decide the obvious course of action – say we had got rid of the ghost, and do absolutely nothing. That should do it – their imaginations had simply run away with them. We will reassure them, they will cease to worry, and we can bask in the glory and use the Sports Students to take over the college. QC muttered about annexing the English Department, and I suggest a putsch in the Student Union Bar. As he has now drunk one bottle of White Lightning and is half way through his second, he nods enthusiastic assent. Hell, I think he would have been enthusiastic anyway. We practice limp wristed fascist salutes, and I agreed we should found the dreaded Pink Shirts for our putsch. I’m far from a Nazi, as you can imagine – but his parody complete with camp goosestepping makes me smile. Bad taste, sure. But funny…

Yeah, I know, I’m  supposed to be telling you about Lars, the so-called Psychic Detective. I’m getting to that bit.

Dawn sees me curled up on the loo floor, feeling like someone had pounded my head with the toilet seat. Judging by the vomit caked in my pullover, and the acrid taste in my mouth, well maybe they had. Then I recall QC’s offer of a quick drink. Not that I got  muc more than a mugful of Scotch; QC drank most of it. And the smell of frying food made me run outside, and heave pathetically over the accusing flower bed. QC strolls out cheerfully, eating a fried egg sandwich, and my heavings bear  noxious fruit. “You look great” he chuckles enthusiastically.  “I’ll tell them the ghost tried to possess you and we barely escaped with our souls”. I am growing swiftly to detest QC.

Of course it does not work. Sports students are not stupid. Did I really say that? They listen to QC’s elaborate tale of incubi, succubae, his role in The Hermetic Order of the  Silver Twilight and his exalted grade as an Ineptus Exemptus 2=3 or whatever,and his great magickal battle with the sppok (in which I seem to play the role of hapless victim, I note).  At first they listen with sympathy, then with growing disbelief, then with gales of  laughter. At least we cheered them up.

It is abundantly clear the denizens of D Block are not convinced, so while QC devised a ritual based on Crowley’s Magick in Theory & Practice, I snuck off and called the chaplain. And you know what? He did not laugh at me.

The Reverend James — I’d seen him at Chapel on first day, where we had sung interminable choruses of some repetitive stuff about Jesus loving us, complete with twangy electric guitar accompaniment> That was bad, but the group of gangly girls in leotards who danced up and down the aisles, miming and waving streamers were worse. New fangled religion, I think I prefer the occasional Methodism of my youth, or the Anglican weddings I’d sat through forced in to some crushed velvet page boy ensemble. Yeah  I’m studying Religion after the Priory experience, but I was never a fan of this God business, and am still not religious. This chapel thing reached new depths of banality.

Still Rev James seemed ok, young, fresh faced, enthusiastic and trying to be “down with the kids”, a  walking stereotype of “trendy vicar”. So I call him, the number was in my Fresher Pack. Wisdh I hadn’t, as he actually worries me more. It seems he has only been here three years, but yes he has heard the suicide story, and yes he has heard each year of the bouncing ball ghost, and yes, every year he comes out and blesses the building. (So not much success then?) He will be right over, and will say the prayers again. We can meet him at D Block after lunch, 2pm sharp.

Turns out an Anglican exorcism is not much to write home about. Technically it’s called Deliverance Ministry, and they wander round saying prayers and I think sprinkling water. I was standing outside, expecting the Rev to be hurled bodily out by ye olde malevolent spook, before the whole building explodes Hollywood style. So I stand peering in, with about thirty others, denizens of D Block, friends and hangers on. QC is on usual form, holding forth to this audience on the inhabitants of the astral world, but they were really just eyeing the door nervously, not giving his spiel the attention it deserves. I catch something QC mutters about Secret Chiefs and  Akashic Records, but I am not really listening either, and he peters out halfway through Holy Guardian Angels.

And then the Reverend Bob James emerges, and smiles a lot, inviting us to a meeting called Greenhouse where we can grow in the Christian Faith.  He gives us  a little pep talk about a personal relationship with Jesus –QC says he wants  “a religion, not a boyfriend”, but no one laugs. The Trendy Vicar makes a few a lame jokes, stares hard at QC, informs us we should keep this all very quiet to protect the college’s reputation, and roars off on his motorbike. Oh, well that’s that.

Church of England 1, Beasties From Beyond 0.

We thought it was all over. In fact, it was only just beginning.

(And I may one day post part 2, if really bored.)